Saving the World on Sundays
by Laboratory Accident
Summary: Becky is a lonely kid who lives in a chip shop with her cultish preacher father. When she gets hold of a Hogwarts letter not intended for her, she decides to risk it all to fake it till she makes it in the Wizarding World.


A/N: So, for anyone who reads this and wonders, "so where the hell is Harry Potter?" I would just like to say that I promise the HP world will make an appearance starting next chapter. :)

CHAPTER ONE

It was a sunny July morning in London. Giant red busses growled to life and began their lumbering rounds about the city. Crowds of people, looking slightly uncomfortable in the rising dampness, walked with purpose towards churches, shops, and tube stations. Music wafted from open windows and mixed with the steady thrum of traffic and smell of petrol. Pigeons tussled with each other over stray breadcrumbs and neglected sweet wrappers. All in all, a cheery and ordinary enough sight—but just a few blocks over from where happy tourists were taking photos of each other crammed in telephone booths, the mood was decidedly darker. The True Believers Chapel was a stuffy, dingy old place that still reeked of vinegar even though it had been years since its previous incarnation as a rather shady chip shop. The outside was equally run down but had a sort of cozy shabbiness about it—one could imagine some old pensioner taking up residence there, maybe somebody's gran. However, if any passerby ever entertained that thought, it was quickly squashed by the slew of none-to-inviting cardboard signs pasted to the windows. "ENGLAND IS DAMNED," read one. "THOU SHALT NOT SUFFER A WITCH TO LIVE" was hung up as well, partially obscured by "SORCERY MAKES YOU GAY." The tiniest sign, which seemed to have been pinned up as an afterthought, advertised "SAVING THE WORLD EVERY SUNDAY: HARD-HITTING TRUTH, SERMONS BY SCOTT SATTERLY, 10am Sun." Of course, the place was for the most part a laughingstock, and only a group of twenty or so ever really showed up for this hard-hitting truth of Mr. Satterly's. There were whispers, though, by the neighbors, about Satterly's daughter. Poor girl, hardly ever let out of the house—they lived up top the converted shop in a cramped little apartment—and when they did see her she always looked so glum. This cultic enclave was no place for a child—she was probably an absolute nutter by now, they surmised. They wondered about poor Becky Satterly, whatever was her life like? On this morning as always, people on their way to work stole quick glances through the upstairs window and spied her staring wistfully out of it, like a princess stuck in a tower. Whatever was she thinking?

Cheese. Becky Satterly sighed and shifted on the window seat. She was thinking about cheese, and it was all-consuming. Her father had sent her to bed without supper the night before, and out of stubbornness she had refused to come down for breakfast. Her stomach was yammering ceaselessly at her with a chorus of angry growls. It wanted cheese. Cheese, all sorts, glorious cheese— Leicester, Stilton, Cheddar, that American stuff that wasn't really cheese but was orange and squeezed out of a tube. She rose from the seat and gazed squarely into the cracked full-length mirror on the wall.

"Wensleydale," she told her reflection decisively. "Don't you think? If you could have any of them?" In the mirror she saw an eleven year old girl, with big brown eyes and long brown hair. She grinned at herself, revealing her rather jumbled set of teeth. Her father had taken her to the orthodontist a few months back, but after the doctor revealed that braces would cost upwards of a thousand pounds, Mr. Satterly had a sudden revelation from God that Becky's overbite was divinely gifted and not to be mucked about with. Becky was also quite overweight, even though she spent a great deal more time thinking about cheese than actually consuming it. These things, in addition to the fact she dressed as if she had just been swept in from the 19th century, all offered considerable ammunition to would-be school bullies, but Becky had never had insults thrown at her by her peers. She would rather that she did, because that would mean she actually had contact with them. She knew that she had to keep separate from all the other kids out there, because they were dirty and evil and maybe even homosexual recruitment agents. But something deep in her soul wanted contact with somebody her age, anyone, even if it was someone tailing her about all day calling her Fatso. So she settled for herself, in the mirror.

"Dad's going out on one of his trips tomorrow," she told the mirror. "I think he's going to take those." Becky motioned around the room at all the giant signs that leaned against the walls, all in day-glo orange and green. "HOMOSEXUALITY KILLS" "WITCHCRAFT KILLS" "POKEMON KILLS." Such an awful lot of things killed. Really, it was a miracle that there was anyone left alive at all at this point.

"And," she leaned conspiratorially into her own reflection, "when he's gone, I'll do it. I'll finally do it. I'll _read_ it." She scampered to her feet and pried up one of the loose floorboards. This was not the most creative of hiding places for contraband, but having never seen any movies or read much fiction in which the secret stash under the floorboards is a constant presence she was convinced the idea was nothing short of genius. She turned her prize over in her hands, and a slight chill ran up her spine. _The Adventures of Laura Smith, Girl Witch._ She had found it in a bag near the stairs of the house, luckily before her father did. The receipt was still in the bag, apparently it had cost someone three pounds forty at Waterstones. It was entirely possible that someone had simply put it down and forgotten it, but Becky preferred to think that it had been left there specifically for her. Witchcraft. The ultimate sin. Part of her was afraid that if she cracked the covers of this fearful thing it would swallow her whole, or perhaps demons would come out and devour her. That's what her father said, and he was a grown man—didn't that automatically make him right about everything? She used to believe that, but she was getting older, and this gnawing feeling inside of her that she was missing something only grew worse. It started when she was nine, with a few old episodes of Doctor Who that she had watched at the babysitter's house. She was never allowed to stay with that particular sitter again, but afterwards she would often try to figure out why this genial, curly-haired man in the long scarf would be in league with Satan. She couldn't. And that was when the doubt began. The book felt warm in her hands. She couldn't wait for tomorrow. She made sure the door was shut, and slowly pried open the covers and dove in. _"Laura Smith was just an ordinary girl, or so she thought…"_


End file.
